


When the Heart is Yearning

by Secrets_of_history



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Gen, Implied/Referenced Violence, Male-Female Friendship, Mentions of PTSD, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:28:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25905880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Secrets_of_history/pseuds/Secrets_of_history
Summary: A collection of stand-alone oneshots centered around Will and Ilsa. Previously posted on Tumblr.The title is taken out of a song called "Carnival of Rust" by Poets of the Fall.
Relationships: William Brandt/Ilsa Faust
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	1. 1

It's pretty much common knowledge that humans are multifaceted beings. William Brandt was no exception.

He possessed a quite fair number of traits that Ilsa liked about him. Loved, as one could argue. She herself didn't. She just admired - first from afar, and then - very up close and personal.

She loved how he was almost always impeccably dressed. She loved his politeness. She loved his diverse knowledge of life's cultural aspects. She loved his snarkiness and tough-borderline-on-being-an-arsehole attitude which didn't interfere with his ability to remain polite (she had a pretty strong idea why those two qualities had often inserted themselves into one another, but she also had enough wisdom to never mention it out loud. It was for everyone's benefit). She even could relate to his cynicism. 

The thing which was attractive to her the most, however, largely would be considered dangerous in a relationship if taken to an extreme level. Ilsa was perfectly aware of the fact. And yet - she didn't care. She couldn't bring herself to care because she couldn't help being drawn to this quality, no matter how dangerous it (supposedly?) was.

The truth is, William Brandt was possessive.

(Here's one more truth - she absolutely fucking hated the feeling of being undermined in any way. But the hatred for hypothetical repression of freedom did nothing to quench her overwhelming need to belong. To belong to someone. With someone.

Last time she tried, everything kind of went to hell. But apparently love is not very keen on learning its lessons.)

She couldn't help but navigate towards his possessiveness like a moth to the flame.

(She could only hope that she wouldn't burn down to a crisp while being engulfed by fire).

1

”You're bleeding”. 

Absolute trust in a relationship implies that you are should be able to remain unfazed whilst witnessing your partner at their worst. Which means that Ilsa doesn't blink while Brandt is unusually calm and collected. He doesn't even raise his voice, but Ilsa is no fool to fall into this trap. So she just settles for the affirmative:

”Yes, I am,” she confirms. ”It's just a graze. Shouldn't be much of a problem”.

Will just stares, not moving a single inch, keeping his hands in his pockets. Then, in the next instant he moves in close, deliberately disturbing her personal space in order to check the wound more properly. Ilsa hisses as he presses his palm down on her shoulder.

”Such a gentleman”, she quips dryly.

”You're the one to talk,” Will retorts. His composure begins to quiver at the edges.

Ilsa places her hand on the back of his head. Looks at him straight in the eye, hoping she will not blink - dizziness can be such an uncomfortable feeling.

”Okay, I'm lightheaded. You're blurring a little. And I really really really liked that blouse”.

Brandt has the audacity to give her exactly what Ilsa was aiming for - he chuckles. Albeit a little dryly, but that's something. 

”I'll buy you a new one,” he says, the pressure he has on her shoulder never faltering. 

”Would you do that for me?” 

She could go for playful. Even while being dizzy.

He wouldn't let her fall. She knows that he wouldn't.

He gives her once-impeccably-white-and-now-bloodstained shirt a disheartening look.

”I would do a hell lot more for you.”

Ilsa places her forehead on his shoulder. Brandt catches her before her trembling knees have a chance to give out.

”Thank you,” she whispers, the words almost inaudible because of her talking while pressing her lips to his shoulder.

”For what?” Will takes her into his arms before she could even falter and then proceeds to carry her towards the in-suite bathroom.

”For not being angry with me”.

”I could never be angry with you, ” he answers earnestly. ”Even when I am."


	2. 2

He washes her hair. Or rather, Ilsa allows him to. Solely because she, being a deft expert on maneuvering around her own needs whilst handicapped, wants to forget, to forget just for once, about the taxing luxury of loneliness.

So she gives Brandt a silent permission to go through with it.

He's very gentle, Ilsa thinks. He's careful to remove her blood-soaked shirt by using scissors and trying not to jostle her arm too much; he doesn't say anything about her being barefoot (again, even though Ilsa is almost a hundred percent sure that Brandt had noticed her predicament long before carrying her to the bathroom); he's extremely delicate once he starts patching up her shoulder. All the while remaining silent. Tensely concentrated. And very gentle.

”Stop frowning,” Ilsa instructs. ”I'm far too dizzy to distract you with a joke.”

”Very funny,” to his credit, Will actually snorts. Ilsa feels somewhat proud.

”I didn't even try.”

He doesn't respond. Methodically discards the bloodstained medical supplies before crouching to reach her feet, a fresh pack of gause and antiseptic wipes ready for disposal.

”What happened to your shoes?” Brandt asks, trying to sound nonchalant and almost succeeding.

”I had a philosophical disagreement”, she stiffens the instinctive movement to shrug, and Will doesn't even need to look up to know exactly what she is doing. 

”With whom?” he asks, applying the wipe to the fresh abrasion on her left calf. This time, Ilsa doesn't elicit a sound. Not even a hiss.

”With a towering tree”.

Brandt can't help himself. He snorts. Loudly. 

”I had to lobotomise him. The heel broke off when I wedged it into his temple.”

”And the graze?” 

”That was done by his friend."

”Another tree?”

”No. He was more like a pitbull.”

”A pitbull with a gun,” Brandt retorts.

”I told you, I'm not in the mood for better jokes.”

He rises to his feet. Washes his hands. Disposes of the rest of the bloodied stuff. Then he sighs, looking at her. Ilsa squints quizzically.

”What?”

”Stand up.”

”No sympathy, huh?” Nevertheless, she does as was asked, swaying just a little, an imperceptible bit, and of course, he helps her to move aside from the edge of the bathtub, because it's just what he is - a gentleman.

The bathtub slowly fills with water. He looks at her, raising an eyebrow in silent question. 

She smiles. She's too tired to cling to her independence. And so she allows him to wash her hair.

It's blissful. And yet - he runs his hands through her hair with such careful gentleness that Ilsa cannot help but wonder.

He doesn't touch her as if she's made of glass, no. He's too smart to ever cross over the blurred line between caring and humiliatingly overbearing. But he's tense. Not angry, but brimming like a tea kettle that was forgotten on a stove. So she grabs his wrist with her undamaged arm, halting his movement. 

Brandt freezes.

”Am I hurting you?”

”No. Are you afraid to hurt me?”

He looks at her. 

”Yes. But people are bound to hurt one another, aren't they?”

He looks solemn. Ilsa doesn't say anything for a long time.

"Yes, unfortunately," she says at least. ”They are”.

The truth is, she can read between the lines, so what he really had wanted to say, remains unspoken.

He's not afraid to break her. He's afraid of the possibility that one day she would as well just disappear, leaving him in the dark.

Ilsa doesn't find it in her herself to say that she shares the sentiment.


	3. 3

He has absolutely zero sense of personal space. When they happen to share a bed, that is.

At first, she's completely clueless. She would have never pegged him for a cuddler, because he, most definitely, is not a cuddler. He doesn't invade her personal space. He doesn't touch her, and if he does, then he does it only out of absolute necessity. 

She doesn't mind his reservedness. She's not much of a fan when it comes to excessive physical contact anyway. It's the unfortunate merits of being a spy. 

But then again, Ilsa is very quick to realize that she trusts Brandt with her life. And death too, for that matter. 

She doesn't question herself on why. Questions can wait 'til better times.

It happens during one particularly windy and dreadfully cold winter night in the middle of January. They've just wrapped up their yet another mission. She's exhausted to the point of being overtired; they all are. And the view of Copenhagen from her window does nothing to put her mind at ease. 

”I didn't realize that you could speak Danish,” Brandt says from behind her back. Ilsa tenses up, almost involuntarily, before being able to recognize his voice.

”Sorry, I snuck up on you. Didn't mean to do that”.

She doesn't need to turn and face him to say that he looks sincerely apologetic. She gets enough clues from his reflection in the window. It's certainly enough for her to feel her heart suddenly skip a beat.

”It's okay,” she exhales soundlessly only for her heartbeat to skyrocket just as suddenly as it faltered seconds ago. ”Did you say something? I didn't quite hear you.”

”I said that I didn't know you could speak Danish,” this time he sounds almost playful, prompting Ilsa to turn around to get a good look at his face, and surely, there it is. That cheeky smile. 

Ilsa shakes her head, suppressing a smile of her own. Cheeky bastard indeed.

”Did you forget that I'm a Scandinavian?” 

”You're Swedish. Most people from Sweden do not have the same comprehension of Danish as they do have of Norwegian.”

”I'm not most people, Will. Although I do also speak Norwegian.”

He just looks at her. He looks at her with a gaze so intense that it could actually pierce through skin and bone. It's so unbearable that Ilsa has to suppress the instinctive urge to shudder. 

She thinks she could kiss him. She wants to kiss him. And then it dissipates. Just as quickly and suddenly as it came, and the only thing that's left is the overwhelming tiredness.

”I'm tired. Would you leave me alone for a minute? I need to change.”

Brandt answers with a curt nod and with a quietly closed door. It takes Ilsa a whole minute to understand that he didn't just retreat to the bathroom. 

He exited the room.

***

Later that night Ilsa wakes up screaming.

She doesn't even remember what she dreamt about. The only thing she is aware of is the smell of blood overwhelming her senses. It's so overwhelming that it clouds her vision. Leaving her unable to remember where she is. _Who she is_.

__And then, she feels the arms locking around her frame. Enveloping her. Allowing her to hide herself in a tiny bubble of perceived safety. Somewhat suffocating. Only slightly. As in infusing with warmth._ _

__She wants to cry. She doesn't, instead settling for the precious simplicity of being able to breathe. Of being able to hear someone's voice while allowing oneself the luxury of not listening. Which is why it takes a while before Ilsa understands that he's talking to her in Swedish. But even then, she doesn't respond._ _

__”Are you okay?” he whispers._ _

__She looks to the window. It's still the same out there. They're still in Copenhagen. It's still snowing. The sun is still asleep. And yet she feels something. Something she's in no hurry to put a label upon. Because the last time she did, it had ended badly._ _

__But that doesn't mean she would allow herself to be ungrateful._ _

__"I am now," she says just as quietly. ”Thank you”._ _

__Will does not answer. As well as he does not let her out of his arms for the rest of the night._ _

__***_ _

__From that night on, it happens every now and then._ _

__He's gentle. Tender. Even when engulfing her. Even when taking up almost the whole space on her side of the bed. He has some sort of fumbling brutality about him which Ethan didn't have; as if he could shatter her if he applied a little too much force. Or no force at all. That makes her basic instincts shiver in delight._ _

__It makes her feel safe. For the first time in years._ _

__The questions can wait till morning._ _


End file.
